The Nearest I Have Ever Come

This boat returning to the elements, spotted one September in the Provincetown dunes, reminds me of the nearest I have come to many things—the things, that is, I'll never do except in words and dreams and brief, yearning visits.

I did dream the other night that I was going to learn to row (wondering what word-play was working/playing in my subconscious).  But now I realize that the nearest I will ever come is looking over the shoulder of Billy Collins in his poem about rowing upstream in a wooden boat...or looking at the Susquehanna in a painting.  Life thrice removed.

Fishing On The Susquehanna In July

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure—if it is a pleasure—
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one—
a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table—
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia,

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandana

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

—Billy Collins

image:  Christie B. Cochrell, Red Boat, Cape Cod